


French Connection

by smothermeinrelish, Unchained_Daisychain



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: AU McLennon Paris Trip, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Armpit Kink, Banana Milkshakes, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, First Kiss, First Time, John Lennon/Paul McCartney in Paris, John's 21st Birthday, Leather, M/M, Paris trip, Prostitution, Rentboys, teddy boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:47:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24826273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smothermeinrelish/pseuds/smothermeinrelish, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: Running low on funds during their holiday in Paris, John and Paul have to find some way to finance the rest of their trip. A wealthy stranger approaches them with an offer impossible to refuse.-He shook his head, slowly and confoundedly. “Bleedin’ hell, I can’t believe yer actually considering this.”“We aren’t really in the position to be refusin’ offers.” At the answering silence, he swatted Paul’s shoulder, pressing, “C’mon, a thousand francs, Macca.”
Relationships: John Lennon/ Stuart Sutcliffe implied, John Lennon/Original Character(s), John Lennon/Paul McCartney, Paul McCartney/Original Character(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 142





	1. Strapped For Cash

**Author's Note:**

> This is our latest McLennon collaboration fic
> 
> There was a thread going around that John & Paul were possibly Rent Boys during their Teddy Boy phase in Hamburg and Paris. As well as a request for an 'Armpit Kink' fic. So here is a little something we threw together as to what possibly happened in Paris when they boys ran out of money.
> 
> P.S. "Banana Milkshakes" is McLennon code for sex.

The café was just beginning to bustle with the lunchtime crowd. Nearing the final days of their holiday, Paul almost hesitated to spare time for meals anymore. Any time spent with John tended to be a full-throttled rush, but even though they had decided to take their time in the city, the hours weren’t nearly long enough. There was still so much more of Paris for them to see. There wasn’t an inch he wanted to leave untouched. As he pondered their next course of action, a wadded straw wrapper struck his forehead.

John smiled at him across the booth. “What’re you thinkin’ about?”

“What we can do today,” he answered before lapping up a stray drop of whip cream from the side of his glass. “Any ideas?”

He sighed, possibilities packed inside the breath, and turned to the window. An asymmetrical shard of light slanted along the side of his jaw. Sometimes it baffled Paul how natural John looked against the Parisian scenery. Still an English bloke with his English hair and English clothes, but it all seemed to blur against the backdrop. 

After a beat, he suggested, “Haven’t seen Notre-Dame yet.”

Paul fit a smile around his straw. “‘Cos we’d burst into flames.”

“Speak for yerself, Macca. I ain’t done nothin’ to be ashamed of yet.”

Shaking his head, he threw the discarded wrapper back at his mate’s cheeky face.

With their plans for the day agreed upon, Paul finished his shake. After noisily slurping up the last of it, he joined John at the counter to pay. Having all of his expenses covered was something he hadn’t yet got used to, and possibly never would. Essentially, he was being paid for his company.

“Ah, fuckin’ hell,” John muttered as he peered between the folds of his wallet.

“What’s wrong?” Paul questioned.

He spread it open for him to see its contents, or near lack thereof. “We were supposed to have more than this.”

“That’s all we got left of what yer aunt sent?” He stared in disbelief at the measly ten pounds. “Out of a hundred pounds?”

“Unless you got some stashed in a sock I don’t know about.”

Paul sighed, hand swimming through his hair. “When were you gonna tell me we’re skint, John?” 

“I had it handled.”

“Clearly,” he snorted. “We’d ‘ave enough to get back home if you had it handled.”

“I must’ve fuckin’ miscounted it, s’all. You an’ these bloody milkshakes are dryin’ me out.”

“Then why’d you keep buyin’ ‘em?”

John waved him off, concentration narrowed to handing the cashier the correct amount. “Never mind it, just…let me think.”

The sudden clatter of a handful of coins dropping onto the countertop stole Paul’s attention. He looked to his right where, behind a pair of round specs, the blue eyes of a middle-aged gentleman gleamed more brightly than the change he had offered them. 

“Pardon, messieurs, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation.” Cushioned by a thick French accent, his words were spoken with measured elegance. “If you are interested in a transaction, I could pay you quite handsomely.”

“Merci, monsieur, but that’s not—”

Sharply, John elbowed his side. Impudently, he demanded, “What kinda transaction?”

A smile stretched across his lips like a snake uncoiling in the sun. “Garçons naïfs, a man never discusses his business ventures in public.” He backed away from the counter and motioned a bejeweled hand to the door. “Join me for a walk, won’t you?”

They shared a quick glance before following the Frenchman out. His brunette hair fell just above his thin shoulders—wrapped in a snazzy suit that looked more expensive than anything Paul had ever owned. A nimbus of confidence played around him, as though the streets of Paris were paved for his polished steps alone. Paul had no idea what sort of business this man dealt in or how they could possibly assist him. 

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your names, boys,” he said.

“John and Paul,” John answered without clarification. “Who’re you?”

“Je suis Gaston.” He smiled, keen eyes roaming over them. “What a pleasure it is to be in the company of such handsome young men.”

Along the rails overlooking the Seine, the man slowed to a stop. From the inside pocket of his tweed coat, he brandished an engraved, silver cigarette case and plucked one from the neat row. Narrow eyebrows raised, he held the case out to them in silent offerance. Such overt generosity began to fill Paul with uncertainty, but he accepted the expensive smoke nonetheless. 

As they bent in for a light, the flame from his golden lighter licked around the dark vacuum of his pupils.

“Seeing as you _are_ such handsome young men,” he continued with businesslike professionalism, “I would be willing to pay the two of you if you would…vous donner un coup de baguette magique.”

John’s hand paused on its way to raising the smoke to his lips, expression dropping like a sack of bricks. “Are you takin’ the piss?”

“What?” Paul asked uneasily, only recognizing select words. “What’d ‘e say?”

“He, er…he wants us to come to his place. For some… _company.”_

As the implication dawned on him, Paul’s cheeks flushed. “We aren’t queer.”

“It’s none of my business, but you do seem to have quite the quandary on your hands,” Gaston went on, unfazed, as though his proposition was nothing out of the ordinary. “And I can assure you, you’ll see no other offers like mine on these streets.”

Diplomatically, Paul tried, “Look, no offense to ya, an’ we appreciate you takin’ care of the meal, but—”

“How much?”

_“John.”_

“‘M just askin’, Macca,” he said sotto voce. “It doesn’t hurt to know and doesn’t mean we’ll do it.”

“One thousand francs,” Gaston offered with firm candor.

The figure was enough to momentarily quiet them both.

At the contemplative look on John’s face, he subtly shook his head and hoped his friend could read the strong opposition in his eyes. Paul would soon rather sleep on the streets of Paris and travel home by foot than consent to whatever this old pervert had in mind.

“Give us a minute, yeah?” John requested before grabbing Paul’s wrist and leading him away for a private deliberation.

The minute they were out of earshot of Gaston, Paul pleaded with him, “Why can’t we just do a show? Like at Stan and Betts, y’know, the Nerk Twins.”

“With what fuckin’ instruments, love?”

“I don’t know,” he said with an exasperated toss of his hand. “We could bum ‘em off someone for a couple hours.”

“Or we could see what this lonely wanker has to offer first,” John countered.

He shook his head, slowly and confoundedly. “Bleedin’ hell, I can’t believe yer actually considering this.”

“We aren’t really in the position to be refusin’ offers.” At the answering silence, he swatted Paul’s shoulder, pressing, “C’mon, _a thousand_ francs, Macca.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

John tugged hard on his cigarette. “We might not even have to do anything, y’know?”

Pulled from the bad taste accumulating on his tongue, John had a knack for reading his mind. “He made it pretty fuckin’ clear what ‘e wants, John.”

“And we can always say call it off once we get there and feel it out, can’t we?”

Once Lennon got an idea in his head—one bolstered by money, no less—it was nearly impossible to dissuade him. Like a song trapped in his fingertips, he was never satisfied until it came to fruition.

Paul sighed. “Fine.” 

They reapproached Gaston with their decision, to which his thin lips curled in pleasure. While John negotiated in French on their behalf, Paul stood behind him like a shadow, with an even darker pit in his gut. Details agreed upon, the man thrusted out a hand for them to shake. Out of mere obligation, Paul did so; they were indebted to him now after all. With sly, foot-in-the-door tactics, the man had made sure of that when he covered their meal.

“Au revoir pour l'instant, messieurs.” He grinned, tipping his head to them. “I look forward to our time together.”

* * *

With the incipience of sundown their only coverage, Paul stared at the scribbled address written on the yellowed parchment paper—verified the number on the stone wall. It was regal, clean, inconspicuous of what activities went on inside its walls. 

He couldn’t believe he had agreed to do this. What if something goes wrong? What if this was all a ploy to lure them to a basement where they’d be murdered and chopped up into little pieces?

“Get out of yer head, Paul.”

He scuffed his boot against the edge of a stone. “I’m—it’s just still worth considering, y’know. Not too late to back out.”

“You wanna rob ‘im instead?” John asked, voice low and without trace of a bluff. “Bastard’s prob’ly got barrels of money.”

Paul frowned, wholly opposed to the suggestion. “No.”

“Yeah, I figured,” John scoffed, “so what other options have we got?” A lilt of pleading in his voice. “You remember the whores in Hamburg—it’s a job just like theirs. Treat it like that.”

Paul just nodded. The uncomfortable weight in his gut told him to leave, hitch a ride in a manure truck back home if it meant avoiding whatever action was required of him behind that door. 

“‘Sides, this way we stay longer an’ can take the train home,” John added. 

Looking on the bright side, he still wasn’t convinced. But the fact his feet had carried him this far already signified his choice.

“Alright, Johnny, lets go.”

Steeling his nerves, Paul knocked on the door.

A few agonizing moments later, Gaston answered with a glass of wine cradled in his hand. Even in the comfort of his own home, he had scarcely dressed down since they last saw him, only his shoes and suit jacket having been removed. With he and John mere scruffs in comparison, Paul figured any passerby would immediately surmise the situation. 

Smiling, the man stepped out of the doorway and outstretched his arm invitingly. “Je vous en prie, entrez.”

The door shut and locked behind them, finally closing their deal.

The further Gaston led them into the house, the more hints at his wealth Paul received. Highbrow paintings adorned the walls and much of the decor was pristinely white, save for accent pieces offering a splash of color. How such a posh man could hide his perverse ways in here was beyond comprehension.

Behind a mahogany door, a lavish bedroom awaited their arrival. Faintly, the smell of rich wood and something dark they may soon come to know permeated the room. Paul’s eyes ambled over the king-sized bed fitted with silky sheets of maroon. Angled in one corner of the room, a wingback armchair faced it. The space possessed this strange, unlived-in quality—no clutter or sense of personal touch in sight. But most importantly to Paul: it was clearly no torture chamber.

As he breezed past the it on his way to a mirrored dresser, Gaston motioned to the bed. “Make yourselves comfortable, boys.”

Hardly able to, they perched themselves stiffly on the edge of the bed—boots still on in case of a speedy getaway. Legs crossed, Paul’s ankle shook furiously back and forth. Until a hand covered his knee, squeezed reassuringly, he hadn’t realized how incessant the movement was. Anxiety bowing in submission, if only a little, Paul placed his own hand atop John’s, squeezing back. 

As though he had all the time in the world and knew they were finally at his disposal, Gaston topped off his glass of wine. They _were_ being tortured after all, weren’t they?

“So now what?” John barked impatiently. “You wanna stick it up me fuckin’ arse, Frenchie?”

For the first time Gaston’s composure wavered at the vulgarity but recovered smoothly. “No, no,” he laughed, almost condescendingly. “I prefer to watch.”

“Watch... _us?”_ Paul clarified.

“Oui.”

His stomach toppled violently. “We’re not really comfortable with that.”

With watchful eyes he noticed the point of contact the two were sharing already. “And yet you seem to be starting on your own.” 

Instinctively, Paul removed his hand, but John’s remained firmly on his knee as if to spite the man.

“Consider me your puppeteer,” Gaston went on, bejeweled hand manipulating imaginary strings as he moved to the armchair, “and you my marionettes.”

He rhythmically swirled the wine in his glass as he pondered his first command. Paul fixed his eyes on the sloshing red rather than the lascivious gaze of their voyeur.

“Kiss your pretty friend,” the old Frenchman finally directed, collected comfortably in his chair. 

_“Paul,”_ John corrected sharply. “His name’s Paul.”

“Oui, pardonne-moi,” he amended with an apologetic hand to his chest. “Kiss Paul, won’t you, _John?”_

“Just…,” Paul murmured placatingly, yet still couldn’t force the words out. 

Maybe they should ease into it like their voyeur was, somewhat tactlessly, suggesting. 

Hand wrapping around John’s to ground himself, he slowly leaned in. Their uneven breaths mingled, smoke-heavy and heating his already warm cheeks. His chest tightened as their lips brushed, both of them flirting with the edge of commitment. For a couple seconds they could only share air and the weight of what they were about to do. 

Stubble whispering his lower lip, John muttered, “It’s only me, Macca, don’t worry.” 

A reassurance. This was only John, this was only a performance, just like any other.

As though the spotlights were beaming down on him, Paul bridged the gap. A gossamer sigh bled from his nose at the first faint press of their lips. He held the connection, wary of the slightest misstep. It was almost laughable how dramatically his licentious ways had regressed simply because another bloke was their recipient. He added pressure, tilted his head when the tension loosened in his neck enough to allow it. 

When the kiss broke, the sound seemed to echo throughout the quiet room. Paul swallowed thickly, mouth tingling from the beat of John’s breath. It was surreal. 

Drawn by an unseen force, they immediately leaned back in without instruction. This time, Paul parted his lips, encouraged by a hand delicately cupping his cheek as if to pry them apart. With every slick locking and unlocking, the hesitancy leached away. An audacious slip of tongue shot a spark through his groin and he reflexively swam a hand into John’s hair to draw him nearer. A moan of approval vibrated against Paul’s lips at the firm tugs of his crooked fingers. 

He found himself melting into it—into the rhythm, into _John._

This was alright. If the old bastard got his rocks off from watching them snog for a while, Paul could manage that and walk away fairly unscathed. 

But of course it wouldn’t be that simple.

“Don’t be afraid to use your hands,” Gaston interjected throatily.

Paul broke the kiss, hand fluttering in indecision at the hem of John’s jumper. “Can I—”

“Yeah,” John answered urgently. “You don’t hafta ask.”

Feeling their way up from the vee of John’s hip, his fingers tripped over the warm skin of his side. Paul felt the catch of his breath beneath the calloused pads of his fingers. Focus centered on this fresh tactile sense, his lips faltered the rhythm they had perfected. Deepening the kiss, John went with it, the deft slide of his tongue causing Paul’s fingernails to bite into him needily.

Steadily, his touches gained courage—palm flattening, venturing to the taut flesh over his ribcage. John’s chest was almost as hairless as a bird’s, but decidedly firm and muscled and such foreign terrain that Paul wasn’t sure he could keep from physically exploring it even if he wanted to.

Christ, he was actually getting hard.

“Remove his shirt, John,” came their next command.

Separating to catch his breath, Paul dipped his flush face away in order for John’s fingers to fuss with the pearl buttons of his corduroy shirt. 

It became quite clear, as John looked into his eyes while undressing him, that this was not the first time he’d done this with another lad. The lack of restraint, the firm touch over Paul’s collar bone. This way of touching his body was not foreign to John, he was familiar with it all. 

It should have sickened him, made him tease the tough teddy boy doing queer acts with a bloke, but it didn’t.

Paul kissed back harder now, feeling the coil of jealousy within. Even with Gaston watching, he needed to make John unravel. Give him the best pleasure of his life. 

“C'est bon, Paul. Kiss his body, all the way down.”

He half-wished the man wasn’t in the room to throw his concentration with these hungry ad-libs. But this was all for him anyway, right? And perhaps people like he and John needed that guidance—too stubborn and fearful to take these steps on their own.

Urgent now, Paul took the lead from some underlying confidence and pushed him back into the mattress. John’s body was pale and lean against the surrounding sea of red. He showed no resistance—pliant under the insistence of Paul’s hand. 

As instructed, he trailed a string of wet kisses down John’s torso. The taste of sweat beginning to prickle on his skin was borderline narcotic. When Paul’s puckered mouth grazed his nipple, John arched into him as though a nerve had been struck. Chaste breath startling out of him, his hand flew into Paul’s dark hair, fingers anchored deep. Through his dark fan of lashes, Paul glanced up at him as he curiously returned to the hard nub. His lips softly latched around it. 

There was no cushiony give of breast, but there were strong, restless hands at his shoulders. An undeniable bulge against Paul’s hip. He darted out his tongue, flicked in lazy circles before daring to tug with his teeth. 

“Paul, fuck,” John moaned, feathery light.

His stomach coiled at hearing his best mate speak his name with such reverence. At knowing he could break the unbreakable with the experience of his mouth.

Down the rungs of John’s ribs, he continued lower and lower. The knowledge of his destination was heavy in the back of his mind. And at the waistband of the leather trousers, Paul knew what was expected of him next. Clever fingers thumbed open the button and dragged them down John’s legs, fabric straining around his thick, creamy thighs. Paul licked his lips, unable to ignore the damp bulge in John’s underwear.

The restriction of his own trousers was verging on unbearable and he ached to feel the cool sheets against his febrile skin. He decided to take initiative, on his knees staring down at the older boy, Paul held his gaze as he removed his cotton undershirt, and began to unbuckle his belt. Straining in his own y-fronts, he reached down to tug his package. Faint sound of a groan escaping his throat.

John’s leaking, hard cock was all the encouragement he needed to imagine what he was about to do next. Paul’s mind faltered.

“Now take him between your lèvres boudeuses,” Gaston purred. “Don’t be shy, mon chéri. You do love milkshakes, pas vrai?”

Paul glanced up at John, already watching him in anticipation with lust-heavy eyes. He actually wanted this. And it was that look, rather than their voyeur’s request, that had him bowing his head over John’s cock. 

Suddenly back at square one, a tentativeness underscored every move. Exhaling a deep breath that tickled over the foreskin, he licked a sloppy, wet tongue over the red tip. Gathering the translucent fluid into his mouth, mulling over the dark flavor. 

A hiss of breath from above, a twitch of approval, and he was eager for more.

Taking what he could, the task was easy to learn. Listening to John babble incoherent words, fingers grazing hard into his scalp. The tugs felt good, feeding the buildup to his own cock, neglected for the time being while he unraveled John’s thread.

“God, Paul….” 

Hands holding down the writhing hips, he peered up to see the sweat-stuck hair, framing John’s flushed face. With the disheveled appearance and approving glance telling him that he was close, Paul took the moment and pressed his own throbbing erection into the burgundy sheets. Mimicking the actions, his own mouth was lapping fierce strokes in time with the thrusting of his own needy hips.

He had forgotten about the spectator, until his intrusive voice alerted him.

“Vilain Paul, wait your turn.”

With the accusation, John growled out. Paul squeezed the thighs that were lifted to cradle his head as John went wild. Saliva and cum dripped from the corners of his mouth as he swallowed greedily, taking as much warm, salty batter as he could gather. Dragging his open mouth back up the torso, leaving a sticky trail of evidence. He had sucked John’s cock, and damn him, he enjoyed it.

Wrecked and panting, John lifted up on his elbows. Seeking eye contact from Paul to know if it was okay, that what he had just done effortlessly into his best mates mouth was alright. Sensing the panic creeping into his friend’s brain, Paul lazily rested against his side, damp underwear and protruding cock brushing over his hip. Before turning into John he placed a chase peck onto his pink cheek.

“I had suspected you would be quite talentueux with those lèvres.” Gaston broke the quiet bubble.

Biting his lower lip in a bit of shy realization, John moved, making Paul sink back into the pillows, damp with his own perspiration.

As hands traced over the skin of his panting chest, Paul’s eyes widened at the realization that the favor was going to be reciprocated.

“My turn,” John whispered gravelly, tugging the last garment of clothing out of his way.

* * *

Paul stared up at the ceiling, chest heaving. Despite the gravity of his orgasm, his body felt weightless on the mattress. The taste of John heavy on his tongue; the sweaty stench of him wisping around his head. He had never considered whether the magic they produced onstage would translate to the bedroom, but the answer was evidenced in the aftershocks still rattling through his muscles. Tempo changes and lyrical touches—everything was still musical between them.

Poised and collected—so unlike the spent boys on the bed—Gaston rose from his chair and smoothed a strand of hair into place with an elegant hand. “La petite mort,” he breathed dreamily. “Yet you always feel so very alive, don’t you, boys?”

Paul’s stomach fisted at his words. John’s measured breathing on his neck and arm slung across his sticky chest, the moment was surreal. The transaction was complete.

Smiling, their voyeur stood before the mirror and primped himself further—tie straightened, cuffs tautened. Wadded in his hand was a pale blue handkerchief. So consumed by their own pleasure, he and John hadn’t even heard the man getting himself off…at the sight of _them._

Fuck.

Idly, Paul continued to observe him, until their gazes met in the reflection. Gaston winked; Paul averted his eyes in something akin to shame.

“Merveilleux spectacle, garçons naïfs.” He placed their money on top of the dresser with a pack of Gauloises cigarettes holding it down like a paper weight. “See yourselves out whenever you please.”

With that, he left them alone.

A damp sigh tickled Paul’s neck, then the gentle trace of an aquiline nose against his cooling skin. “Mm, I could fall asleep ‘ere,” John mumbled drowsily.

“Don’t,” Paul said with a light pinch of the hair on John’s arm as though to rouse him. “There’s no tellin’ what he might do to us in our sleep. He was already watchin’ us in the café.”

“Yeah…clearly those milkshakes weren’t dryin’ _him_ out.”

“Fuck off,” Paul laughed. “Don’t think I’ll ever be able to drink ‘em again.”

He was relieved to know the experience hadn’t damaged their relationship. In fact, maybe it had even strengthened it. Whether by choice or by bribe, the most intimate thing you can share with a person is your body. 

“Sure you will.” John pushed himself onto his elbow, smirking down at Paul as he added lowly, “They remind you too much of me now.”

Eyes more tranquil now but no less earnest, John held his gaze as he leaned in. They kissed languidly, taking everything for themselves without the pressure to perform. Paul’s mind splintered at how natural it was becoming. 

“Ready to go?” he asked when they parted.

“Yeah,” John answered, but his eyes were fixated on Paul’s glistening lips, “unless you wanna stay and double our earnings.”

Fondly shoving him away, Paul smiled. “C’mon, randy git.”

There was something odd in facing the streets of Paris again; nothing about them had changed, yet it seemed everything about himself _had._ And maybe the city knew that. 

When John suggested popping into a pub for drinks on their way back to the room, Paul readily agreed. At the table they smoked their posh French fags in silence. The glowing orange tip descended upon his fingers like the sand in an hourglass, urging him to say something. In a way, it felt as though this were a stranger sitting across from him now…even though he knew John far more intimately than that now.

What were they supposed to talk about?

The frothy French pints arriving at their table were a welcome distraction. No longer on a budget, they were able to throw back as many as they pleased. Or, in Paul’s case, as many as it took to loosen his nerves for discussing what they had done. 

For the better half of an hour they sat in the noisy and musty pub. Even during moments as innocent as conversation, Paul couldn’t help but notice the steady flush of John’s cheeks from his buzz and recall how spectacular that shade of red had looked against silk sheets. Christ, he needed to get a grip. John didn’t appear to be so hung up on this, so why was he?

Their walk back to the motel in the brisk night air helped to somewhat clear his head. With every step away from the Frenchman’s home, the rigidity was slinking out of his spine. Every brush of their arms was blamed on the drink and every concern in his mind could be assuaged with a simple chat.

To Paul, this didn’t seem to be something they could sweep under the rug. He needed answers, needed to know if their friendship would now move forward or back to the way things were before they were two pinched travellers in a café. 

Back in their room, he finally decided it was time to clear the air. As he watched John stash away their money deep into the toe of his boot, he quietly asked, “So, erm, do you wanna talk?”

“‘Bout what?”

“The—y’know, the….” 

Truthfully, he wasn’t quite sure what to call it. Prostitution sounded too degrading, and fucking sounded too casual. 

“Shag?” John offered bluntly.

“Yeah.”

“Not much to talk about, is there?”

Paul huffed incredulously. “We sucked each other off. Mates don’t do that.”

“Mates in a bind do,” he said matter-of-factly, shrugging.

“I know we were, but—”

“‘M fuckin’ knackered, Paul,” he groaned. “Let’s just give it a rest tonight and chat later.”

That was that. Discarding his clothes and falling into the mattress, John was already asleep before Paul got his boots off.

He knew from their time in Hamburg that John was the type of bloke to blow his load and immediately pass out on the bird. No different than now, and after several pints he was amazed that they had made it back to the right side of town.

However, his adrenaline was pumping. How could John sleep so peacefully with no cares? Only hours before this, his mouth gave salacious pleasure to Paul, igniting curiosity for more of what could be. Paul didn’t think he would ever sleep again knowing what he had done, or what that made him now that he was sure he wanted more.

* * *

Over the next two days, it was the elephant in the room—in the whole of France. Paul never found the right time to bring it back up, too reluctant to ruin what was still a pleasant holiday. And John seemed unperturbed by the entire encounter, just another means to an end. So, it never came up again.

They conducted themselves as normal, touring Montmartre and holding their breath as they stepped foot inside Sacré-Cœur. Paul had been sure the cruciform figure of God glaring down at him from the ceiling would clap his hands together at any moment and smite him right there.

* * *

Another morning arrived with glaring sunshine and a splitting headache after a night at Moulin Rouge.

He hadn’t slept much, distracted by the rhythmic breathing of John all night. As well as his overly analytical replay of their monetary transaction, on a continuous loop in his brain. Knowing if he stepped into Notre Dame now, he’d surely burst into flames.

Stretching his body in the sunbeam, like one of Mimi’s cats, John yawned loudly.

“‘M starving, mate, wash and an omelette?” he muttered with sleep-disheveled hair and that daft grin aimed at Paul with its usual fondness.

If John could sweep this under the rug, Paul could too. No more stupid ideas, just put it in the past. This was John, the leader of their band. The chaser of skirt, who shared descriptive details of all of his conquests. As if John thought a blow job from Paul was nothing more than another mindless knee trembler to add to the notches on his bedpost. Yep, that was how it was going to be, no more worries about it.

“You said it, I’m famished. Shower’s mine first.” Paul threw the flattened feather pillow into John’s face and ran out the door to the bathroom. Hearing John grumble into the bed covers, he laughed.

“Better save me some hot water ya’ prick!”

Paul definitely would. His morning erection was not backing down after the gorgeous sight of John stretched out with sunlight reflecting in the auburn strands of his messy hair. No, he was planning to take a freezing shower to shut off whatever feelings were steadily growing inside.

After a brisk morning routine, they found themselves sat outside the café, enjoying the last bit of coffee and pastry. Paul admired the happiness claiming John’s face as they soaked up the rare warmth of the October sun.

“So, since our funds are replenished, what’s on the agenda today?” he asked, taking the last cold sip of espresso.

“What about the Louvre again?” Hands behind his neck, John tilted his face to practically kiss the sunshine.

“Could do, could do….” Paul nodded approvingly before a shadow stepped in to block the sun from their cafe table.

“Bonsoir, gentlemen.”

The voice caused the heels of John’s boots to scrape the brick, having awkwardly slipped in his chair. The chances of running into him again weren’t impossible considering they were relatively in the same spot as their first meeting. But Paul didn’t think he would ever get used to seeing that face. 

Both boys sat up straighter, avoiding eye contact. 

“Please, don’t let me vous interrompre,” Gaston excused politely. “I was only passing by and wanted to say merci for our last interaction.”

“De rien,” Paul muttered into his cup, before looking up at the man.

John sat idly by, studying the interaction between the two of them as though it brought great amusement. If he was as uncomfortable as Paul, he was hiding it well.

Toying with the polished knob of his walking stick, the older man spoke: “I am having a soirée this evening and would very much like for you to venir faire un tour.”

“Would we be paid again?”

Paul’s neck turned so abrupt, the dishes on the table clattered. “John—?”

Cutting him off, Gaston raised his jeweled hand to stop his questioning. Even on the streets the control he poised over them was remarkable. Marionettes they indeed were.

“This is not that kind of fête. Perhaps other participants would be willing to pay your bouche talentueuse.” Smirking at Paul, he bent down to tap his glimmering knuckles on the slate table top.

“Ta, Frenchie, we’ll consider the invitation.” John grinned through his full-wattage smile.

Paul couldn’t tell if he was taking the piss or genuinely considering showing up to the party of poofters.

Suddenly his satisfying breakfast felt like cement in his gut. They had enough money to get home, more than enough. What would be the purpose of going to Gaston’s house a second time? Unless John was interested in the clientele. A wave of nausea settled in; this was getting to be too much.

“Au revior, boys, see you at six.” Gaston began to turn before he remembered, “Oh, and be sure to…vous entraîner before you come. My guests are assez expérimentés.”

The two of them watched the gentleman walk along the river, tipping his hat at people he passed. The rings glinted on his hands like four miniature suns and scorched Paul’s insides just the same. A good minute elapsed before either of them spoke.

“Let’s get out of here.” Throwing coins on the table, John stood up. Seeming a bit aggravated at the interruption to their lovely morning.

They walked in the opposite direction of Gaston, huddled close enough that their elbows brushed as they strode in silence. It was about ten minutes before John stopped down a little side street under a green awning to light a cigarette.

Rather than offering a fresh one to Paul, he handed him the fag he was already smoking. Letting the moistened tip touch his lips, he inhaled hard. Through the curtain of smoke, he considered John and the invitation.

“Planning on going back there tonight then?” he asked, cocking a smirk at John before passing back the cigarette to continue the circle. 

Their fingers grazed as he accepted it, murmuring around the filter, “Nothin’ wrong with earnin’ a bit more play money, eh?”

“Gonna be more blokes there this time, though.”

John smirked. “Since when ‘ave you ever cared about an audience?”

Paul had always viewed sex as a private matter, but this holiday was continuously dismantling everything he thought he knew. The presence of Gaston was already unsettling enough. Could he handle a roomful of more strangers?

“It’s a bit different when I’m pullin’ me prick out in front of ‘em.”

“Don’t worry, love,” John murmured, a tendril of smoke chasing the words out. He stepped closer, tucked the fag between Paul’s plump, parted lips. “I’ll have it in my mouth before they can even see a thing.”

Paul’s stunned demeanor wasn’t even absorbed as the cigarette fell from his mouth to a puddle below him.

“C’mon, Paulie, let’s see if that Mona Lisa blushes as scarlet as you.” With a playful pat to his cheek, John headed to the main road towards the museum.

The silent corridor in a Renaissance gallery gave Paul the clarity he didn’t ask for. The wing they shuffled through, thinned out of crowds, was perfectly still. Immaculate paintings hung floor to ceiling, the ancient oil of the pigment permeating the air. Akin to the odor of Gambier Terrace—the pigsty that two art students called home. Brushing into his shoulder, the press of leather jacket into his side should have been a welcome touch he felt starved for. Instead Paul thought of that sad sod, Stu. The object of John’s infatuation.

While John squinted through his glasses at the portrait of Odysseus, Paul felt unworthy of the culture he was immersed in because of John’s generosity. He shouldn’t be the one here with John, especially now with this strange side of him emerging. 

For all of his vulgarity and loutish exterior, John appreciated the classical arts. His and Stu’s rarefied discussions about styles or the nonsensical mess of colors Sutcliffe splattered onto a canvas always soared over Paul’s head. He was just a bloke with a guitar who never saw meaning behind a brush stroke. For a long time, he had felt there was a different bond between the two artists.

His jaw was clenched, teeth aching as he stared blankly at a nude marble statue.

The firm grip of a splayed palm grabbed his arse, shaking him from his reverie.

“Nice tits on ‘er.”

Realizing they were alone and John was referring to the stone goddess in front of him, he loosened his shoulders. The hand resting on his bottom traced up to the jut of his pelvis. These touches were deliberate.

“Guess so? Might chip your tooth, if you’re not careful.” His response was shaky coming out of his mouth. 

Instead of moving apart, the warm body of John pressed up behind him. If a patron would walk into the gallery, they wouldn’t be able to see a sliver of light between their torsos. For that, Paul was grateful. He closed his eyes, as both hands traced from behind to dance over his belly, just above his belt.A soft sigh escaped, amplified through the desolate space. 

When lips grazed over the nape of his neck, Paul felt his knees buckle, only to be held up by the strong arms around his waist. Light, open-mouth breaths traced his skin, sensations he had never felt before as the wet tip of a tongue licked the plump lobe of his ear.

Their breathing echoed in unison as Paul leaned back to get more of that teasing touch. Hands overlapping the ones at his waist, the full press of John against him alerted him to the very evident arousal straining into the cleft of his arse.

“Think I’ve seen enough for today.” Paul’s languid neck stretched, inviting more of John’s mouth over his skin. Only soft caresses were being given to him, but the sheer throbbing of want was overpowering. His eyes still closed, feeling every sensation to the fullest.

“‘Sides….” Hand dipping lower to grab the now fully hard cock in Paul’s drainies, a hiss sizzled in the gallery. “Thought we should practice a bit before the party.” 

Biting his ear, the moan he let out made John chuckle into his shoulder. Entwining their fingers, Paul turned to face his cheeky attacker.

“Was hoping you would suggest that.” Boldly ignoring their surroundings, the crash of their mouths felt like a dam bursting. Engulfing each other as if the days apart, avoiding the tension, had them starving for each other.

The clack of heels nearby abruptly scattered the two. Pretending to observe the paintings while a tour group entered the hall where they had been residing, their eye contact signaled their next move.

Bumping shoulders with blush-tinted cheeks and half-hard todgers in their trousers, the boys rushed past the geriatric crowd to the nearest exit. Giggling like mad as if they had stolen a masterpiece.

Once outside of the building, John grabbed his wrist and rushed them back to the room in minutes flat.

The door had scarcely closed behind them before John was being crowded against it. The breath knocked out of him from the collision quickly morphed into a laugh, thrilled by the urgency. 

“Fuckin’ warning would be nice, love,” he breathed, smile quickening the beat of Paul’s heart.

With a quirk of his eyebrow, he challenged, “Where’s the fun in tha’?”

Adrenaline seething through his blood, Paul felt almost feral with his need for him. He shoved a knee between John’s thighs, seizing the opportunity of a quiet gasp to kiss him deeply. Their mouths met as though they had never known a shred of hesitancy. Jaws widening for a taste of everything they had deprived themselves of during their initial inexperience. Groaning, John wove a hand into Paul’s raven hair and tugged with greedy fingers. 

With no one to bark orders at them, they could finally focus on what _they_ wanted.

Paul wrangled John’s jacket from his shoulders, chests hard and flush together. His hand snuck up John’s t-shirt and mouth down his neck, as though hoping to meet somewhere in the middle. Everything was angles and planes, and it should have been a labyrinth for Paul to maneuver around, but it felt more familiar than the road to home. As his teeth worried the sinewy flesh over John’s fluttering pulse, his fingers tweaked a nipple. With a hiss and thud of his head against the door, John’s hands fisted his shirt. Gracelessly, they rucked it up his back, until he could rid Paul of it and similarly strip off his own. 

The frictional grind of their leather trousers was the most relief he had felt in days, as indelicate as it was. He panted damply into the crux of John’s neck, mouth smearing along his skin as the rhythm of their hips overcame him. God, the sight of them now would garner pools of money at their feet. Shirtless and moist-mouthed and arching into each other like the desperation had manifested itself with claws.

Strong hands framing his face as they kissed, John walked Paul backwards to the small bed. They stumbled blindly and laughed breathily into each other’s mouths when a foot snagged an article of their hazardous clothing trail. In a flurry of limbs they landed on top of the bed, the masculine physique of John a pleasant weight beneath him.

Never before had Paul had the liberty to be rough with his partners. Birds were fragile and expected touches as gentle as his words. But John didn’t want that; in fact, he resented it. Both of them welcomed the vice-like grips and struggles for dominance that reminded them the other was indeed a bloke. 

Pinning John’s arms above his head, bare chest exposed, the sweat dotting his skin from the exertion permeated around him. Before, the salty stench of their bodies after rocking on hours at a show was mildly nauseating. Now, he was drawn towards it. The chemical pheromones made his tongue water with need for a taste.

As his pelvis slowly undulated into John’s, Paul’s mouth opened to lick his straining bicep and taste the odor of him in all of his senses. Against the cotton of his underwear, his cock strained with each breath he took in. 

With John sprawled out below him, Paul realized he _had_ stolen a masterpiece.

* * *

“Still wanna go to the party?” Lying naked on their bed, sweaty and spent after the rough session, Paul grounded the shared cigarette end into the night stand ashtray. 

Mottled purple splotches were blooming on the paper-thin skin of his bicep. The image of John biting into him while he climaxed across their torsos blurred any reason to ever leave the comfort of this bed. 

“‘Course,” John murmured against the ridge of his collarbone. “Reckon we can milk even more dosh outta the bastard’s posh friends.”

Silent, Paul chewed the inside of his lip. After what they had just done, he thought John might change his mind about attending. This was still their trip and he didn’t want to spend it sharing the birthday boy with a group of strangers.

John frowned up at him. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to?”

“Well, we already got off. Just don’t really see the point in goin’ anymore when we could spend some time here, y’know?” Trying to remain aloof, he looked around the room distractedly.

“I told you, it’s an easy fuckin’ job, Macca.”

“That’s all it is to you?” Immediately regretting the tone in his voice, sounding desperate.

The lips that were caressing his skin stilled and Paul held his breath. 

A shade of confusion in his eyes, John asked, “Is it _not_ for you?” 

How could it be a job when the touches felt so genuine? As if the whole build up of their partnership was leading them to this moment. 

Minutes before, John’s weight had anchored him to the bed, tugging them both off in his tight fist while he worshipped Paul’s body with his hungry mouth. He came so hard, white light flashed behind his eyes while his legs hugged John, never letting him go. 

That didn’t feel like a job, it felt an awful lot like they had become lovers, and he didn’t want to share.

“We didn’t come here just to be a couple of queer prozzies, John. We already got the money, you can stop now.” 

“An’ so can you. If you weren’t jumpin’ me bones five minutes ago so you could get it up before the party, then why’d you do it?” John’s eyes darkened after the bite of his words.

“I…I thought you came onto me ‘cos you _wanted_ to, not ‘cos it was ‘for practice’.” Cleary missing John’s actual intentions, his stomach churned, fluttering with anxiety. 

“You were standin’ right bloody there when he gave us the invite, Paul. You tellin’ me you’d do this shit for free?” 

With John, yes. With John, he would travel all the way across the world or even stop short in Paris if that’s what they reached first. And part of Paul hated himself for it, because apparently they were both doing this for different reasons.

Rather than admitting anything, he responded, “I thought _you_ might.” Tugging the starched hem of the bedsheet, sinking a bit lower to be swallowed up before John could attack.

“Why me?” Venom in his throat.

“‘M not daft, John—I can tell when it’s someone’s first time givin’ head and when it’s not.” The air stiffened between them, before he softly uttered his accusation.

“Was it with Stuart?” 

“Fuckin’ hell, here we go,” John muttered to himself, firm on his back, jaw clenched at the cracked plaster ceiling. “Christ, Paul, what’s with you an’ him?” 

Rolling over to look at his aggressive supine pose, Paul’s jealousy snapped.

“Nothing with me an’ him! I just wanna know—who else, John?”

“Fuck off. Didn’t realize I’d brought Cyn along on fuckin’ holiday. Acting like a jealous bird, Macca,” he griped as he whipped the covers off and rose from the bed. 

Snatching up his scattered clothes from the floor, John dressed himself quickly, omitting his underwear as he struggled his pale arse into the leather trousers. Stomping over to grab the pack of smokes and his boots.

Paul pushed himself onto an elbow, anger in his voice. “Where the fuck are you goin’?” 

“Out. Clearly this means somethin’ else to you.” 

“John! Wait—”

The door slammed before he could finish. 

Left alone in their shoddy Parisian motel room for the first time, Paul sighed. The frenzy of their hands had weaseled its way into their words and he hadn’t even seen such a seamless transition coming. That deal with Gaston was never supposed to turn into this. A moment that had brought them together was now tearing them apart.

Paul lay back on the bed and waited for John to return or 6 o’clock to arrive. Whichever came first.


	2. Rocking On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the last part to this naughty French holiday.
> 
> thank you for all the comments and kudos on the first part. this has been such a fun collab and we hope you enjoy the rest!

Cranking the hot water as far as it would go, Paul wanted the heat to burn his skin. To cleanse him of the lust-laden dirt covering him. 

_‘Finally have you where I want you.’_

Flashes of words in his ears where the suds muffled his thoughts. It had felt so good, the way he spooned into the curve of his arse, hands caressing to slow down the pace. 

In the rough moments, tenderness had emerged in brief snippets. While John kissed him with passion, he could feel the hot breath on his neck. 

_‘You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted you….’_

He lathered vigorously, anger rising as if that bastard could pretend he didn’t want this. Didn’t want Paul in that unspoken way that would get them thumped in a pub for the mere mention of the act. 

_‘Mmmm, you’re fuckin’ perfect, baby.’_

Fuck you, Lennon, for this head game you had thrown him into. 

Skin pink, it nearly burned to the touch as he wrapped in the scratchy towel and walked back to the empty room. 

He sat down on the bed, disheveled soiled sheets mocked him. Time ticked closer to the main event. If John well and truly fucked off to God knows where, Paul would be on his own to get back to Liverpool. The impulsive bastard had stormed out with all of their cash in his boot. 

The time had come for him to get by without John to help him. That meant earning dosh the easiest way he could for a train ticket home. He’d pleasure the old poof friends of Gaston’s, all the while reminding himself that it was just a job. 

* * *

Those moments backstage before they stepped in front of a packed club were always nerve-wracking. When the air felt trapped in his lungs, John was always there to force it out with a laugh; or George, with his soothing presence. But now he had to face the crowd alone. 

With more stoicism than the first time, Paul knocked on the door.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he straightened himself. Considering he hadn’t anticipated any need for posh evening attire, it had been a challenge to make himself look presentable. But maybe their slovenly nature was part of the appeal.

An older gentleman with bullet holes for eyes and teeth that elbowed one another for space in his mouth opened the door. A tumbler of amber liquor on the rocks sweated between his fingers, and the loose tie and limp locks of hair only proved how many drinks deep he was. So unlike Gaston in every sense.

Leaning against the door jamb, his drunken eyes gave Paul a leisure once-over. “Tiens donc, quelle belle surprise.”

Before he could open his mouth to respond, Gaston appeared by the man’s side. Gently shooing him away like a dog in heat, he laughed, “Johann, tu vas effrayer le pauvre garçon.”

“Je veux savoir où tu trouves ces perles rares,” the pie-eyed man responded, voice trailing down the hall.

With an amused shake of his head, Gaston stepped aside. “Come in, Paul.”

As he silently entered, he decided it would be best not to disclose what had happened between him and John. But of course the man considered them a package deal now. And how foolish of him to hope a voyeur would be so unobservant.

“I had anticipated the two of you would arrive together,” Gaston said while leading him through the house.

“Yeah, well—”

“But I suppose John is an eager young man.”

Paul frowned. “Eager?”

But the scene of the party soon answered for itself.

Cigar smoke hung heavy in the air, clouding the lavish paintings along the walls. Older men, with varying stages of balding and jewelry brighter than their smiles, mingled throughout the room. And on an emerald green settee in the middle of it all, John sat as comfortably as any guest. Or perhaps more so, judging by the blonde twins perched on either side of him like two trophies.

Paul’s heart clenched.

“Here, have a drink.” With his frail arm wrapped around his shoulders, Gaston handed him his glass. Paul slugged back the warm amber liquid. Expensive as it burned his empty stomach.

Like the ancient Roman orgies he had read about in books and plays, the room was thrumming with sexual deviances. Boisterous laughs echoed in his head while his eye never left the image of John. Eyes heavy with drink or desire, splayed loose with his hips open, allowing for the young boys to pet him in his leathers like he was their golden calf.

As far as he could tell, his presence hadn’t been detected.

Until the abrupt pull of his arm took him from Gaston’s safe custody. Registering he was being led to the chaise across from John, he looked upon the face of his captor with slight fear.

“Venez, asseyez-vous sur mes genoux.” The strung-out man from before gripped his arm like a vice.

The heavy alcohol in his starving gut had made his head light, confused as he tried to understand what was being spoken to him. His knowledge of the language felt absent without John by his side, ever the guiding translator. Was he in over his head in thinking he could pull this off?

Plopping down on the uncomfortable surface, his eyes pleaded in vain with John, too distracted by his fawns.

_John, please…look at me._

Their mental connection was so strong, maybe if he willed his thoughts to speak to him he would realize Paul needed him.

The loutish Frenchman pulled him up and onto his lap, suggestively rubbing into Paul’s backside. Seductive words that he didn’t understand whispered into his ear, he surrendered. Letting the man do as he pleased, he had to get home somehow.

Eyes closed tight, Paul tried to understand how he got here. So close to John but a canyon of distance between the pieces of ornate furniture. Picturing their earlier tryst when the two of them were lovers, so far away from the moment they were in now.

“Pierre, suce-moi cette jolie bite de garçon.” The sour breath of the old man hit Paul’s face, thickening the spit in his mouth. He swallowed, willing away the bile churning up his throat.

Movement from the settee made Paul stare, a scattering of bodies. Finally, John saw him. The sharp glint in his bloodshot eyes, and the exact moment the jealousy hit him. 

_That’s right, John….here I am….this is what you wanted._

A shirtless waif sauntered over to where Paul was reclined. Humming contently, the feminine boy kneeled, caressing his legs and whispering over and over, “Joli bébé…joli bébé.”

Feeling John’s eyes burn into him, he pretended to enjoy the attention. Letting out soft mewls, acting like this is what he enjoys, never losing eye contact with John.

He could see the other blonde continue to suckle at John’s neck. Delicate hand still moving inside the tight leather pants, but John wasn’t focused anymore on the attention he was receiving. From what Paul could see, he was seething with anger—fuse burning slow, explosion pending.

A hand brushed over his chest, and the cool smoky air hit his groin as his zipper was undone. The nimble fingers of the blonde touched his flaccid cock over his cotton underwear.

“Laisse-lui du temps, Pierre. Il est nerveux.” The old man chuckled above him, emitting a giggle from the boy.

Feeling left out of the joke, Paul smiled awkwardly and readjusted on the furniture to be more comfortable. Repeating the mental mantra, _It’s only a job, a performance…._ Clenching his teeth, he shut his eyes to the feel of the wet tongue lapping over him. When the mouth of the stranger contacted his bare skin, he shook his head. Blood seared through his veins at the realization that this was what they had come to—strangers at a party. Alone together.

He felt the sting in his eyes, the start of tears. He sucked in a lungful of cigar-thick air, forcing the emotion away.

_This isn’t what I want. I want YOU, daft bastard!_

His head turned to open his damp lashes and lock pleading eyes with John.

Then it all stopped.

The sounds and gyrations of the room, the overly sensitive skin of his body being feasted upon by strangers, it all faded away. Until he saw that comfort—hidden under the bitterness and scowl—just John, steadying him.

“Get the fuck away from him!” 

The walls vibrated from the eruption. Before Paul could blink, he was pulled out of the Satyricon orgy and standing on shaky legs. The kneeling blonde toppled aside to the floor, face etched in confusion that was now more palpable than the smoke in the air. 

Gaston parted the sea of onlookers, a frown wrinkling his brow. “John, what’s the problem?”

“We’re leavin’,” he said with curt finality.

Shouldering past the sweaty bodies, he left Paul with little choice but to follow. 

As they left the room, a snub from one of the host’s snotty friends saw them out like a kick in the arse: “You know better than to rent the rough English types, Gaston. Nothing but trouble.”

In a blind rage made even more fearsome by his silence, John stormed through the labyrinth of the home until they at last found their way out. Paul’s head spun at the pace, fragmented from the shrapnel of his friend’s explosion. He was relieved for the excuse to leave but hadn’t expected things to escalate like they did.

John descended the small steps, then paused at the end of the cobblestoned walkway. The tense line of his shoulders had Paul physically bracing himself for a solid punch. But upon turning around, John hauled him close by the lapels of his jacket and roughly forced their lips together. His body stiffened with all the surprise of a firm hit, but slowly melted into the kiss as though he knew those hands were made only to love. 

The rage flaked from John’s shoulders like chipped paint. He leaned into the solidity of it, practically dragging Paul down from the steps. Hands buried in auburn hair, he kept John close. There was a possessiveness in the way he kissed—different than any they had shared and more tangible than the cold caress of fetters around the wrists. _“Mine”_ was embedded in the tips of John’s fingers and stamped onto his skin with every restless touch. Even when being purchased for his company, Paul had never before felt so owned.

When he got what he wanted—when the taste of a stranger had been replaced with his own or when the ire had dissipated enough for him to think clearly—John broke the kiss. His lips lingered, much like the first time. 

And then, without a word, he continued down the walkway.

Staying a few steps behind, Paul followed. Keeping his head down while the tempo of their feet eventually slowed. 

Surrounded by greenspace, John sat down on a bench. Aware of their location, they were on the edge of the park leading to the Eiffel tower. It was the first place they had gone to when they arrived in the city, that seemed like years ago. Paul had appreciated the imposing height of something so much grander than himself. It seemed to put everything into perspective.

Approaching as if his movements would startle John like a frightened kitten, Paul sat down at a safe distance. 

“Smoke?” he offered, gesturing the crushed pack to him. A peace offering. 

John took one, lit it gratefully, and said, “Didn’t think you were gonna show.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t’ve. You seemed to be havin’ enough fun on yer own.” 

Clicking his tongue, he hung his head. The assumed judgment from Paul weighing him down. 

For a minute, he was silent, only the sound of sirens in the distance. 

“You were wrong, ya’ know. ‘Bout Stu. Never did anything with ‘im.” Staring straight ahead, he pulled the life out of his cigarette. 

“Look, John, it’s a bit late for—”

“It was never about him, Macca. It’s only been you!” Finality in his tone. 

“‘M sorry, what?”

“Paris an’ Spain, this whole bloody trip.” He gestured to the sky with the ember or his smoke. “I didn’t ask anyone else—not Stu, not Cyn. Only you.”

Turning to finally look at him, John’s eyes were tired. Exhausted from drink and debauchery and maybe Paul. 

With a hitch in his breath, he shuffled closer. Cupping Paul’s cheek with a cold hand. 

“‘Cos you’re the only one that matters, Paul. You’re it, and when we—” His hand broke away, threading his fingers through his corkscrew curls, trying to find his bearings. 

“When we kissed….” Reminiscent fingertips traced over his mouth as if to feel the phantom memory. Paul kept on holding his air, afraid if he exhaled this confession would blow away on the breeze. Quietly, John finished, “I knew.”

His lungs betrayed him—the sigh he muttered oddly relieved that John got to the realization on his own.

“I know, Johnny.” Although days ago the knot of feelings tore him up, sitting on this bench, in this moment with his best friend, he had no regrets.

“How?” he questioned, eyes tracking between Paul’s as though searching for the answer himself.

“‘Cos I felt it too. You think I’ve been oblivious to it all? God, John, when we kissed…”

“It was different, yeah? I can’t even explain it.” He shook his head, and Paul could practically see the snapshots of the party zipping across his eyes. “And then seein’ you with someone else—with another _bloke_ drove me mad.”

“Had to get a rise outta you somehow,” Paul teased with a nudge to his shoulder. His heart sang at the shy smile tugged from John’s lips; but earnestly, he continued, “Won’t have to worry about that anymore, though.”

“I should hope not,” John said just as seriously.

The lights of Paris backlighting him glistened like the promise Paul was giving. However stunning he had thought John looked against the city days ago in the café—before their relationship took such an unforeseen turn—he was even more ethereal than that now. Untouchable, forged from sand and silk and everything that made the world worth exploring.

With a visceral ache, Paul had to know: “So what does all of this mean?”

John sighed heavily. “I guess it means…it’s me and you. Us and Paris, us and Liverpool, us and wherever the fuck we go. Just me and you.”

He smiled. “Me and you.”

* * *

Sitting at a café on the Left Bank, they ate and talked animatedly, just as though no earth shattering confessions had come between them.

Between a mouthful of frites, Paul asked, “So when did you, ya know? Fancy me.” Batting his eyelashes to emphasize.

John swallowed a gulp of his beer, pensive. “Suppose it was Woolton Village fete, ‘member?”

“I remember being scared shitless of you, then Len an’ Eric sizing me up.” He rummaged on his plate for another fingerful of chips.

“Ah yeah, but later, when we were at the piano. I touched your hair. Called you ‘Little Elvis.’”

Blush filled his cheeks as he remembered it like it was yesterday. If John was serious, then four years of friendship had been harboring a deeper affection than he realized.

“Yeah. I remember that.” He smiled out of the corner of his mouth.

John lit a cigarette, leaning away from his finished plate. “What about you, then?”

What a loaded question. If you’d have asked Paul three days ago, he’d say the moment in Gaston’s house when John looked at him with more care than anyone had ever reflected on him. 

As he sat considering the question, little snippets of their friendship flashed into the forefront of his brain. Sitting on the top level of the bus, thighs brushing together after they nicked some records and their breaths were labored from the thrill of it. 

Mirrored practiced sessions in the sun porch of Mendips, when John’s hair glowed like a halo as the sun shined in, igniting his smile when they wrote their first song together.

The day John lost a mum but Paul finally found a confidant—an understanding soul in his grieving friend.

The one that stuck out, the moment in his chest where he understood now the feelings he’d had were not nerves of embarrassment, but the realization that he wanted John, needed him.

“‘Guitar Boogie’, when I punted the solo.”

An inquisitive eyebrow raised, reminiscing the gig that was the first time Paul had played with them on stage.

“After I fucked it, you took me aside in the alleyway behind the hall.” He reached for the smokes, lighting his own. “Kept thinking, that was it, you were kicking me out of the group. I’d let you all down.” 

He paused and smoked, while John dragged his nail over the water ring on the table.

“But, you didn’t. You hugged me for a long while, I rested my head on your shoulder an’ you didn’t say anything about it. Just asked if I needed a pint.” He softly chuckled at that. “Suppose that’s when I knew.”

Looking up, he smiled at John. Seeing that he was studying him, probably thinking the same thing as Paul: _We’re two daft lads that deserve each other._

Under the table, Paul reached out to cover John’s hand with his own, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“You wanna get outta here?” he suggested, unable to hide the eagerness in his voice if he tried. “Head back to the room?”

Paying for their meal while stubbing out cigarettes, they left the café. Fingers threaded together while they walked leisurely back to their temporary home.

* * *

At an uncertain hour of the night, Paul awoke by the insistence of a full bladder. Carefully he untangled himself from his sleeping lover, who frowned at the loss of warmth. His dream-soft face nearly compelled Paul to suffer for the rest of the night.

Padding across the cold floor, he decided to make it quick instead.

Without flushing, lest the noise wake John, he walked back to the bed. The distant moonlight from their window crowded around John like a spectacle. All pale skin and smooth features, he was the only clarity in the shadowy room. 

A sight Paul wanted to remember forever. 

On a whim, he grabbed their camera from the chair. So many snapshots of their trip it had already captured—but only the goofy, care-free ones before they became something more to each other. Now they needed a timestamp for when Paris became _their_ Paris. 

Paul aimed and steadied the camera. John’s head poked from the thick bundle of their blankets, hair still tousled from the moment of passion they had shared before bed. He clicked the trigger. 

Emboldened, he stepped closer in hopes of more defined angles. This time when the shutter snicked like a match head, John’s eyes blinked open. Blearily, he squinted up at Paul, just as another picture was captured.

“What’re you doin’?” he murmured gravelly.

“Just…,” Paul shrugged, suddenly sheepish, “memories, y’know?”

A smile stretched like taffy, slow and sweet, across his lips. Heat rising to his cheeks, Paul no longer felt the frigid floors beneath his bare feet. God, John could make him feel like such a pining schoolboy sometimes.

“Soft lad,” John finally muttered, more fond than he had ever heard. Pushing the blankets aside, he extended a hand to him. “C’mere.”

Paul sat the camera aside and accepted the embrace he was pulled into. Gratefully he wrapped himself around John’s naked heat, earning sharp hisses as he stole it for himself.

“Christ, yer bloody freezin’, love.” John rubbed his hands over his back, warmed him with kisses at his neck. “How long were you standin’ there?”

“Don’t make me sound like such a creep,” Paul laughed. “Wasn’t that long, s’just _that_ cold in ‘ere.”

John’s nose dragged along the soft line of his jaw, heat of his breath inducing more chills than before. “Long enough to put yourself together a little photo album.”

Grinning, Paul grabbed his chin to shut him up with a kiss.

Their intense snog had progressed further than anytime before. In between the urgency of their tongues and mouths, a new prospect lingered on the horizon.

“Will you fuck me? Please?” Whispered so soft, he wasn’t quite sure if he heard it. Only when John moved, to a more submissive position, reality hit him like a ton of bricks. He wanted to do this, and hearing John ask saved him from mustering courage to suggest it.

“Yeah, I want to….” Kissing him harder, he needed the validation of what was going to happen next. His nostrils filled with peppermint and ivory soap, breathing in his clean lover. Teeth scraping over the smooth jaw, freshly shaved. It was beyond what he had expected. John pliant against him, back pressed to his damp chest, while roving hands gripped his pecs. 

As it turned out, hair grease had another useful property. At the sight of his fingers disappearing into John’s hole, Paul bit his lips, listening to the sounds, his cock envying the slick slide of his digits. Rocking into his fingers, the image was more than he could handle. 

“Talk to me, Johnny. How is it?”

His sweaty auburn hair repositioned itself on the thin pillow, mouth angled to mutter, “S’good, so good, babe.”

It was that endearment that made him shiver, pressing a soft kiss to the freckles on his shoulder. He’d never been this turned on before. The anticipation, his dick throbbed as he rutted against the milky skin of John’s arse cheek. 

“Need more, c’mon, Paul.” He shifted, body sprawling into the neon white sheets, stark in the pitch black room.

Hand removed, he slathered the slickness over his cock, steady to not lose his composure. He leaned to cover the rigid expanse of skin with open-mouthed kisses. Whispers of praise and adornment before he entered his lover. 

God, the reaction and relief in the act. Pulling him deeper, this was better than any previous time he’d been intimate. Having the ability to be rough with John made the prior sessions fun, but now he wanted to be tender with him. Being given this profound gift, he wanted to make this good for both of them.

A slight change in pitch to John’s delicious moans had Paul slowing, groping soft.

“That good? Am I hurting you?” Closing his eyes, he kissed softly behind his ear, unsure if he could stop now that he was fully ensconced in John.

“It’s good, yeah—” A cut off moan as the angle changed, Paul slipped deeper.

“Oh! Christ, there…fuck—Paul!” John’s entire body flexed, heating fast under Paul’s draped body. 

Smirking to himself proudly, _I did that to John Lennon._

He gained momentum, seemingly on the edge of his own orgasm faster than he had anticipated. John met his thrusts with the rhythmic bounce of his hips, and Paul merely took his pleasure.When another moan and the intense squeeze circulated through his cock, he was a goner.

Splayed out in a slick heap of tangled legs and panting breath, the freezing room welcomed relief to their overheated bodies. Silently, calloused fingers tickled over his forearm, possessively holding on. Limp package cuddled into John’s gloriously thick backside, he drifted off into a euphoric uninterrupted sleep.

* * *

“Wake up, Princess.” A flick to his ear woke him from a dreamless sleep. Yawning while he sprawled out, he realized he had the whole bed to himself. He opened his eyes to John sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching him.

“Alright, time’s it?” Cringing a bit as his limbs woke up to a slight ache. 

“Sore, darling?” Observing Paul’s display of discomfort, John reached quick to pinch the meat of his hairy thigh, disrupting his stretch. Giggling, as the touches moved all over his still sleep-addled body. “Imagine how sore your arse will be after I’m done with you!”

Stopping the ministrations, Paul suddenly remembered what had occurred in the middle of the night. He looked boldly at John as he set a paper bag on the night table and lit a smoke. Before he spoke.

“Right, about that, are you okay? Are… are we alright?” he asked tentatively, worried it had gone too far—he’d fucked things up.

“Jesus, Paul, I’m not some bird you fucked, then fucked off.” Playfully hitting his messy bedhead, he stood up, taking off his jacket.

Paul blushed, feeling embarrassed for assuming. “I know, just making sure.”

“Pastries in the bag, coffee on the desk.” John pointed while searching in his pockets. 

“Eat up! Big day ahead of us.” The grin on John’s face was more than a man’s who had gotten laid the night before. He looked to be bursting with a secret.

“What’s got into you?” Paul asked while he pissed in the oddly placed toilet in the corner of their room.

“Well, last night it was Mr. Paul McCharmley’s talented prick…,” he trailed off with a chuckle. “But today it’s an impending rock ‘n’ roll show.”

Plopping on the bed with the hot cup of black coffee, he dove into the bag, stuffing nearly a whole croissant into his mouth. Chewing lewdly and rude, John flashed him two concert tickets he had pulled from his pocket. Paul squinted, unable to read what was printed.

“Johnny Hallyday, Macca!” he enthused. “France’s answer to a Poor Man’s Elvis! Tonight only at the Olympia!”

His excitement was endearing, a child’s on Christmas, but Paul couldn’t resist teasing him a bit.

Grabbing his own breakfast, he joined him on the bed to peruse the tickets. “You askin’ me on a date, Johnny?”

“I’ve spoiled you enough this trip.” He snatched them back and swatted the top of Paul’s head. “Now get dressed, you lazy sod. Went and got you brekky while yer still in here layin’ about.”

He smirked around the lip of his coffee, downing the last of it. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up nice for ya, love.”

* * *

With the full timbre of Hallyday still ringing in their ears, they shared sips from a bottle of wine as they meandered back to their room. The stars crowding the inky nighttime sky seemed to be pushing them into one another. They were outgrowing the city and encroaching upon the universe.

As they passed a young couple embracing beneath a tree, Paul noticed John’s eyes lingering on them. He nearly stumbled over an uneven stretch of pavement until Paul grasped his bicep.

“Easy there,” he chuckled. “Feelin’ a little tipsy?”

“No,” John answered with a laugh of his own. “Just…never really see that back home.”

“People neckin’ in the street? I see it all the time.”

“Well,” he shrugged, sounding unsure all of a sudden, “it’s not just that, is it? There’s so much love, right out in the open.”

“Yeah, I reckon it is a bit different.”

“I don’t know, it sorta rubs off on you, dunnit?” John’s eyes were sincere behind the thick lens of his specs, which he finally wore for a change. 

Paul considered him for a long moment. The shadows from buildings and light from a full-bellied moon clashed spectacularly on his face. Angles sharpened, curves softened. His wine-stained lips seemed to embody everything he was talking about. No longer was love a four-letter word, but a deep shade of red coloring his mouth and cheeks and trace flecks of hair.

A shade that imbued every drop of Paul’s blood as he finally answered, “Yeah, it does.”

A comfortable silence blanketed them as they walked on. The landmarks gained familiarity, not far from their destination. And just in time, as they were reaching the last of their drink.

Gripping the neck of the bottle as John passed it over, Paul noticed him muttering something beneath his breath. It didn’t sound like one of the songs from the concert. Not that Paul had made out all of them anyway. After taking a swallow, he asked, “What’re you singin’ over there?” 

_“Sont des mots qui vont très bien ensemble,”_ he sang with a hand drifting to the rhythm.

“Sounds dirty.”

With a roll of his eyes, John bumped his elbow. “Randy git.” In English this time, he sang, _“These are words that go together well.”_

“What words are those, then?”

Red tongue stuck out like a strand of liquorice, John tipped the bottle up and gathered the remaining three drops of wine on his tongue. Then he chucked the empty bottle down a narrow alley. It shattered noisily as he slung an arm around Paul’s shoulder and hauled him close to his side.

“John and Paul,” he whispered at last, and pressed a kiss to his temple.

Paul bit his bottom lip on a smile, cheeks quickly heating beneath his words and embrace alike.

Inside their room, they undressed each other unhurriedly, as though every article of clothing was a day off their holiday they hesitated to lose. And in a way, it was. Their time to return home was drawing increasingly nearer. There was no need to rush.

On the thin mattress, John managed to liquefy his bones with talented lips. Swimming a hand into John’s hair, Paul let his vulnerability bleed like paint. 

“So gorgeous, Paul,” John murmured into the vee of his hips. 

He giggled at the vibrations, giddy from the wine and the music and the vague declarations of love. _JohnandPaul, JohnandPaul, JohnandPaul._

With a quiet chuckle himself, John glanced up through shadowed lashes. “What?”

“Tickles,” he muttered, petting his auburn hair and grinning stupidly.

“Yer sloshed,” John said with a fond shake of his head. The hold on Paul’s hips solidified, impossible to break. “Now shut up while I suck you off.”

Cheekily, he asked, “Can I moan?”

“I’ll allow it.”

He laughed again but sobered in an instant as John kissed his tip. Eyes slipping shut, he hummed in approval.

Maintaining the moderate pace they had established for themselves, John licked a bold stripe up the underside. Cold air met the slickness and he shivered. Silky and reverent, John’s tongue circled his cock—every pleasured breath and desperate touch a thread that wound them closer together. Flesh and bone, inseparable, in these moments in Paris.

“Don’t be a tease, baby,” Paul pleaded.

“Can’t help it,” John spoke, breath offering the warmth of his mouth but none of the coverage. “It’s so fun watchin’ you fall apart.”

When he at last took Paul into his mouth, a sigh trickled from his lips. Inch by torturous inch, John swallowed him. His pace varied irregularly—keeping Paul on his toes at every second. 

In a moment of daring, Paul looked down at him while fully knowing it could end him all too soon. The first time John sucked him off, he had kept his eyes on the high ceiling of Gaston’s bedroom. Too afraid to confront the truth—too immobilized by his own pleasure.

But God, had he cheated himself of a breathtaking sight.

Hair mussed from the restlessness of Paul’s hands. Heat of his cheeks spreading to the splay of his lashes—silhouettes on a fiery lake. His own hips rutting against the mattress with impatience. Paul relished in the obscenity. Bowed over his body, John showed him a dedication and worship that only music had ever known. 

“John, shit—I…I’m close.”

Spurred on by his warning, John moaned around his base. The vibrations tickled his body in a way far from humorous this time. Fist tightening in John’s hair, he pulled as though it could send his own cock farther down his lover’s throat. But John was already beyond his limit—taking all of him.

“Mm, oh fuck—” His heels drove into the mattress. Desperately, his hips tried to buck against the strength of John’s hands but failed like a caged bull. His orgasm teemed over him in fierce waves. And John, steadily becoming an expert, sucked him through it.

The room turned to sand at the edge of his vision.

As Paul caught his breath, chest heaving, John trailed kisses up his body. He moaned contentedly, as though pieces of his orgasms were still fragmenting out of him. Eventually, John reached his neck, nipped at his fluttering pulse, then planted kisses all over his face. Eyelids, nose, forehead, and lastly Paul’s lips where he offered him a taste of himself.

“Did you…?”

“Mhm,” John hummed, eyes sated, “couldn’t hold out, watchin’ you like that.”

Softly gazing down at Paul, he nudged their noses one last time before collapsing in place beside him on the bed. He felt around for Paul’s limp hand on the sheets and raised it to his lips for a tender kiss. Three, four more times—one for every digit. Heart heavy, inflated more than ever, Paul rolled into his chest. He dazedly hummed the tune John had composed out of thin air earlier. With the balls of his fingers, he chorded the notes on the fretboard of John’s sternum.

Suddenly the music granulated in the air. He whispered, “I don’t wanna go back.”

“Well, gotta go back to Liddypool eventually, Macca,” John said softly, fingernails idly gliding up and down his arm. “Playin’ a gig next month in Birkenhead, ‘member?”

“Yeah…. It’s just felt so nice gettin’ away.”

“We’ll be back. Paris ain’t seen the last of us yet.” That toppermost-of-the-poppermost assurance buttressed his words. It never failed to coax a smile to Paul’s face. “In a couple years when we make it big, I’m bringin’ you back to shag in the poshest hotel around. Sellin’ more tickets than Hallyday, we’ll be.”

He thumbed gently over Paul’s cheek, as though the future was waiting there in its round curve. Ready for him to collect on the pad of his finger like dust from a shelf. And when Paul smiled, he felt all of it smearing into his skin. 

“Sounds like a plan, love.”

  
~ **_Fin ~_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading; we'd love to hear from you in the comments!

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please comment and share!
> 
> Shout out to Charlotte [(aka @purechocolade)](https://purechocolade.tumblr.com)for help with the French Translation, you are amazing Friend!
> 
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> xoxoxoxox


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